


12 Grapes

by koritsimou



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 20:35:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5599939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koritsimou/pseuds/koritsimou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a little new year's eve scene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	12 Grapes

**Author's Note:**

> It's half five in the morning and I dashed half of this out before the bells, the rest a good bit later. It's equal parts a "start as you mean to go on" new year hope, and an apology for never bloody posting anything.

Enjolras is feeling more goodwill than his current rant would suggest. He has a glass of red wine in hand and a matching flush to his cheeks. The topic, one he has returned to throughout the course of the day - is the cancelling of their weekly meeting. The argument has long ceased to be sincere: he has enjoyed Joly and Bossuet’s party, and earlier in the evening even admitted to the group that Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s veto power was well used.

Now, he complains only to Combeferre’s ears.

“I don’t see why we could not have met, at least,” Enjolras is saying as Combeferre mixes two tall drinks. “Sorted the agenda for next week.”

“You do realise today is a bona fide holiday,” Combeferre says, lifting the glasses.

“We already missed one for Christmas,” Enjolras counters, ignoring the face he knows Combeferre is pulling. “New Year’s Eve is hardly a deserving observance. It serves no purpose beyond providing an easy excuse for promiscuous drunks, and premature gratification for resolutions that will be forgotten before Epiphany.”

“And so you wish us to enjoy it with a looseness suited to the greatness of the occasion,” Grantaire says, like he’s quoting something.

He does that a lot when he’s drunk, Enjolras muses. Though currently, he is without a drink in hand, presumably his reason for appearing in the kitchen.

“Not exactly what I was building to,” Enjolras says when he realises he hasn’t responded.

“Your speech seemed very reminiscent of a letter by Twain,” Grantaire explains.

Enjolras is embarrassed, he knows the letter, but the partial quote was unintentional. He knew the phrase “promiscuous drunks” felt familiar even as he said it. “I’m surprised you knew it,” he says, thankful that the long hours of drinking provide cover for his rising blush.

“I am not entirely unread.” Grantaire bows his head.

Combeferre uses the interruption to return to the party proper. Enjolras doesn’t watch him leave.

“Quite the opposite,” Enjolras agrees. It is not learning that Grantaire lacks, just the will to do anything with it. It has long been a cause of exasperation for Enjolras. “I meant I’m surprised you recognised it in your current state.”

“ _My_ current state?” Grantaire says amused. He gives Enjolras a long appraising look.

“I do not indulge as often as you,” Enjolras excuses himself and resists the temptation to touch his hair, which is surely a shambles by now. Enjolras doesn’t know what time it is, but he feels the frivolity has lasted some time already, and he has lost count of the number of times his glass has been refilled. A glance around the kitchen walls does not provide a clock, but he thinks it must nearly be time to ring in the new year.

“A great pity,” Grantaire says sincerely. He hasn’t lifted his gaze from Enjolras.

“You would say that,” Enjolras says, but even he isn’t exactly sure what he means by that.

That Grantaire would support an increase in alcohol consumption might seem a fair assumption based on his own habits, but Enjolras is speaking more specifically than that. Grantaire seems to take a particular delight in seeing Enjolras loose with alcohol, entertained by how quickly he loses his usual stern coherence after a few glasses.

If he is honest, Enjolras also enjoys who he is in Grantaire’s presence after a few drinks. His arguments seem less personal, when Enjolras doesn’t have to rise to them. With the excuse of alcohol, Enjolras is free to enjoy Grantaire’s rambling orations, the timbre of his voice, the colour in his cheeks, without having to pick out the flaws in his points. With no expectation of a rebuttal, Grantaire’s language is more colourful and his countenance easier. Enjolras wishes it was always so.

Right now, Grantaire is uncharacteristically quiet. The silence is striking with the loud noise of their friends just on the other side of the door.

“You need a drink,” Enjolras says, to say something.

“It seems unlike you to think so,” Grantaire says, a small grin flashing.

“It is unlucky to toast with an empty glass,” Enjolras reasons, and as if to add more weight to his argument the throng in the next room begin counting down from twenty. Enjolras was wrong, there is a clock in the room. The oven’s green numbers blink 23:59.

“You can pour a glass faster than I, I’m sure,” Enjolras nods towards the bottle on the counter.

“There are other ways to ring in the new year,” Grantaire says gently. The voices outside the kitchen grow louder as the count goes on.

“In Spain, they eat grapes,” Enjolras says. He looks at his own glass of wine and murmurs, “Not that different, I suppose.”

Grantaire looks at his watch. “I think they’re a little behind,” he comments, as their friend’s cry “eight”. “Happy New Year, Enjolras,” he says with a small smile.

Enjolras doesn’t know where the urge comes from, but he follows it instead of questioning it, stepping close to Grantaire and kissing him. He intends only a quick press of lips, but Grantaire makes a surprised sound that Enjolras finds he enjoys. He presses a little firmer and dares resting his empty hand on Grantaire’s shoulder. When Enjolras pulls back, he leaves his hand there.

“Happy New Year, Grantaire.”

“Undeserving though it may be, I can’t say I’m not glad you chose to observe it,” Grantaire says, wryly, after a pause. His eyes are still closed and Enjolras thinks he might not just be referring to the holiday.

Outside of the kitchen there is a uproar of sound, as their friends loudly wish each other well for the coming year. Enjolras realises they will soon be sought out. Less gentle than he intends, he nudges Grantaire backwards, towards the door.

Grantaire’s eyes fly open, but he moves as bid. “What-” he starts.

“Shh,” Enjolras cuts him off with another kiss. And another. They are quick, just fleeting pressure, but they set butterflies flying in Enjolras’ stomach.

Grantaire presses back, tries to slow Enjolras down with a tentative hand on his cheek, but Enjolras isn’t to be hindered. After another two quick kisses, Enjolras hurriedly explains, “Twelve grapes in twelve seconds.” Another kiss. “In Spain. One for each month of good fortune.” It’s a poor excuse, he knows, but it’s easier than finding words to explain the desire pooling low in his stomach.

Grantaire doesn’t seem to mind. “And you didn’t have any grapes?” he mumbles against Enjolras’ mouth.

At eight kisses, someone tries to open the kitchen door. Enjolras throws out his flimsy reasoning and presses Grantaire back against the door in a long kiss. Grantaire’s fingers wind into Enjolras’ hair as his mouth opens under Enjolras’. He tastes of wine, sweeter than Enjolras has been drinking, and cigarettes, and he groans beautifully when Enjolras nips at his bottom lip.

Enjolras should have done this from the beginning, he realises. It’s obvious Grantaire is in agreement. _Fuck twelve seconds,_ Enjolras thinks, _I could do this for twelve years_. On the other side of the door Joly exclaims, “but it doesn’t _have_ a lock.”

Enjolras indulges in the wet heat of Grantaire’s clever mouth for a few more long seconds. He draws back regretfully when fists rain down on the door. “I hate other people,” Grantaire complains, letting his head fall back against the door. Their names are being called on the other side.

“What a positive outlook for the new year,” Enjolras says, an unexpected smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It should be awkward, he thinks, this moment, but it isn’t.

“Is there something stuck against the door?” Joly is asking loudly.

“Happy New Yeeeaaaar,” Courfeyrac calls over him. “We will start it with breaking the kitchen door down to free you!”

“No we won’t!” Joly cries. “Can you guys just check if there’s something catching it? It’s never done this before.”

Enjolras doesn’t want to let them in, but Grantaire is already moving away from the door with an apologetic shrug. Enjolras misses the feeling of his hands against his skin. He is going to have to set aside some time to consider this further. For now, he catches Grantaire’s hand and squeezes it quickly. He drops it and opens the kitchen door.

There is a chorus of “Happy New Year!” and the stuck door is quickly forgotten in a flurry of hugs, cheek kisses and well wishes. Enjolras means the words he says to his friends, but his eyes keep finding a riot of dark curls in the crowd, drawn to them over and over.

“You look wrecked,” Courfeyrac crows delightedly, by way of greeting. Enjolras feels it. He wishes Courfeyrac a happy new year and matches the knowing glint in his eyes to Combeferre’s quiet smile. They both at least suspect something. 

Courfeyrac raises a hand to Enjolras’ hair, but Enjolras bats it away before it can land. He quickly kisses Courfeyrac on each cheek to negate the insult. “Happy New Year, Courfeyrac.”

“Happy New Year, Combeferre,” he says, embracing his friend.

“It certainly looks like one so far,” Combeferre comments and Courfeyrac’s smile grows. 

Enjolras fights the temptation to defend his actions, and prepares to let his friends have their fun, but to his surprise they both seem content to put all teasing on hold.

“We’ll let you get back to that,” Courfeyrac says gleefully, and Enjolras realises the party has trickled back into the living room after liberating a few more beverages from the kitchen. Only Grantaire remains, occupied in a distinctly protracted selection of a wine glass.

When the door closes behind Combeferre and Courfeyrac, Grantaire abandons his pretence, turning away from the cupboard to lean back against the counter.

Enjolras crosses the room to stand in front of him and only then feels the awkwardness he had expected earlier. He wants to touch him again, but doesn’t know if he is allowed.

“So new tradition or will you be buying grapes next year?” Grantaire asks. His voice is full of forced casual, but he scratches nervously at his wrist.

“Better than grapes,” Enjolras intones. “In any form,” he adds, glancing at his glass. He doesn’t want to wash the taste of Grantaire from his mouth just yet. He offers Grantaire the glass wordlessly.

Grantaire shakes his head. “I’m good,” he says, but at the same time he takes the glass from Enjolras. He slides it onto the counter behind him and Enjolras takes a deep breath.

“We didn’t quite make it to twelve,” Enjolras says conversationally, but his heart is racing.

“You’ll think me dreadful,” Grantaire says through an amused smile. “But I wasn’t counting.” 

“Absolutely dreadful,” Enjolras agrees, though truthfully the idea that Grantaire was to caught up to count delights him.

“I think perhaps the only way to be sure is to start again,” Grantaire suggests, practically.

“Very sensible,” Enjolras approves, sinking his hands into Grantaire’s hair. 

This time Grantaire pulls Enjolras close and slides their mouths together, his hands hot on Enjolras’ waist. Neither of them bother with counting.


End file.
